


The Bloody Leg: Part 1

by WilliamAnyaScottHolmes



Series: Twist on a Trope Ficlets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Sexual Tension, blood tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilliamAnyaScottHolmes/pseuds/WilliamAnyaScottHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an installment in my ficlet prompt series from tumblr, the Twist on a Trope series.</p><p>This ficlet was prompted by Anonymous: "I love your writing!! You asked for tropes to twist, but can I ask for a straightforward John-gets-injured-on-a-case one? I'm craving it and your style would be perfect for it <3"</p><p>The only reason why this still fits in the Twist on a Trope Series is that it is the perfect lead-in to a twist ficlet I'm dying to write. That will be Part 2!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bloody Leg: Part 1

A sound reverberates through the barren, stale warehouse, a sound so animal and pathetic that I practically skid to a halt against the dusty concrete floor. Blood is pounding in my ears and my lungs are heaving: two auditory obstacles prohibiting my ability to hear what has happened somewhere across this vast space, a lofty structure containing endless rows of shipping containers and sturdy wooden crates.

Footsteps. Light. Running. Light footsteps running due West, roughly 30 meters from my location and the distance increasing. Fleeing. John doesn’t flee. So, not John.

 _John._  My stream of thought stutters to a halt and I sprint toward the spot from which the footsteps began. The cry had been one of pain, and the quick footsteps I heard were not those of someone fleeing while wounded, meaning whoever was left behind had been the one to cry out.  _John._

As I approach the area most likely to contain him, I slow my pounding steps just enough to allow my brain time to process what my eyes see down each aisle. The data from each leftward glance seem to travel lazily from my retinae through my optic nerves. Why must the human central nervous system be so intolerably slow?

“She… Sherlock…” John’s voice rasps only two aisles down. My legs push harder to close the gap between us and my mind generates an image of that lovely mouth whispering my name, calming and steadying me as I prepare for the worst.

John is on the floor leaning low on his right elbow, upper back against a red shipping container, right leg stretched in front in him, left arm clutching the shin of his left leg. His face is sweating, his eyebrows are pulled together and his breath is deliberate and measured. Pain.

As I run to him, my fingers fumble to dial 999 before I’ve even removed my phone from its pocket. Tossing it aside after the first ring sounds, I look back to John and see blood pooling slowly on the floor beneath his bent left leg, seeping from between his fingers. Leg injury. Bone snapped so badly that skin was broken? Stabbed? Slashed? Shot? No, I heard no gunshot, scuffle, or snapping bone. A breaking tibia would have been impossible to miss. Knife wound, then.

I stride quickly around him to his left side, drop to my knees, and reach for his face. The moment my palms make contact with his cheeks, his eyes snap open and his shoulders relax. “John,” I hear my voice say, sounding small and weak, “John, is anything else hurt? I’m going to check your leg, but is there any other damage?” He shakes his head slowly. I lean back to examine his leg, watching as his bloody hand slowly releases his shin. There is a slash through his jeans. I gently roll the loose cuff until it is just below his knee.

It’s not a long slash and is on the outer side of his leg, not across his shinbone as I had thought. Good. Less chance of nerve damage and easier to mend. I tear off my scarf and apply it above the wound as a tourniquet, then drop my Belstaff from my shoulders to the floor and hastily remove my suit jacket, balling it in my hands in order to apply pressure to the gash. As my right hand presses gently, I rest my left on John’s knee and finally look back up to his face.

His eyes are gentle as they meet mine. A useless observation, so I glance away to check his vitals visually: breath is steadying, pulse in his carotid slowing minutely, and brows relaxing, though his jaw is tensing intermittently as the pain throbs. Look back to his eyes. They are no longer on mine. They are moving languidly over my torso, his lashes long and casting shadows across his cheeks from the harsh overhead lighting. All visual signs of pain or injury are gone from his face. He is breathtaking.

I slowly lower my head to see what he sees: a heaving chest beneath a tight white shirt, damp with sweat. So damp that the shirt clings to every contour… it might as well be painted on. My face is suddenly very warm.

I move my eyes back to his leg deliberately and without lifting my head, hoping he will think I’ve been looking there all along. He gaze had been… transfixed. Not like the times that I make a particularly excellent deduction or remember to restock the refrigerator. In those situations, he looks at my face and is typically smiling. This had been directed intently at my body: my sweaty, flushed, breathless torso. I force myself to focus on maintaining steady pressure on his leg in order to keep the majority of my blood in my brain and away from my groin.

An impossibly long silence passes, though I can certainly hear my heart pounding in my ears again. Every second that passes seems to thicken the air and fade out the world around us.

“I phoned for an ambulance. They’ll track the GPS on my phone,” I finally say in a voice that sounds far too loud.

“Thank you,” he answers, and I can hear a smile in his voice. Is he laughing at me? Our eyes meet and he is still smiling slightly. If anything, he is the one who appears tense, not at ease and amused by my awkwardness. “The closest hospital isn’t far, they should be here soon. You should go after Carter. He’s small, smaller than me. You could catch up with him.”

I’m shaking my head before he finishes the suggestion and look back to his leg. “Lestrade can find him. He’s not a very smart criminal, he’ll behave predictably.”

“Sherlock,” John says gruffly, and I look up at him through my lashes, responding to the command. “Really, the cut isn’t that deep, I can hold the pressure until they arrive. The pain is manageable.” But as he says this, the sound of sirens can be heard speeding toward us, diffusing the tension and lightening the atmosphere. I grin triumphantly at John as the wailing sound grows louder and he rolls his eyes with a pursed smile.

The sirens cut out and I hear car doors slam. “In here!” I shout, wanting to stand and escape John’s magnetic pull, but I can’t release the pressure on his wound just yet. John is focused on maneuvering into a posture from which he can easily stand, and I welcome the lack of attention after such a prolonged, heady moment. I can distract myself with the ambulance and hospital. For now, we are back to normal. I can navigate these waters.


End file.
